Kurt was upstairs, on Skype with Finn (and wasn’t Finn’s reaction priceless when he saw just how dressed down Kurt was letting himself be. “It’s good to see you relax, man,” Finn had said. “I mean, your fashion is cool, and all, but it’s like, now I can see you, not your clothes.” Kurt hadn’t really known what to say to that; Finn could be really insightful when he wasn’t trying to be.), when he heard singing coming from the kitchen. He paused, cocking his head to listen.

“Timmy in the well?” Finn asked.

“What?” Kurt said. “Oh, no. I just heard Puck singing, that’s all.”

“Oh yeah?” Finn asked. “Anything good? It’s never too early to start thinking up set lists for Sectionals.”

“Rainbow - “Black Sheep of the Family”,” Kurt said, finally identifying the lyrics. He paused when Finn’s words registered. “You’ve been spending too much time with your girlfriend, Finn.”

Finn shrugged, smiling easy. “Nah. I figure, the more time I spend with her, the more likely my chances of finally getting to touch her boobs.”

“Ew,” Kurt said, making a face. “I understand you like them, and all, but--no.”

Finn laughed, his face lighting up. Kurt smiled at him, so glad that he and Finn had settled into really feeling like brothers. Kurt had gotten over his rather embarrassing crush quite quickly, and Finn had made such strides toward, not just acceptance, but support--Kurt knew how important family was, and Finn was family now.

On screen, Finn jumped, and pulled his buzzing phone from his pocket. He looked at the screen, and smiled sheepishly at Kurt. Kurt hid a grin.

“Have you been summoned?”

“Kinda,” Finn said. “Catch up tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Kurt said, and waved before Finn disconnected the chat. He closed his computer, and followed the music down to the kitchen. The radio was playing softly in the background, and because Kurt was simply full of natural talent, he entered the kitchen in time to join in on the end of the next song:

“For we grew up tall and proud

In the shadow of the mushroom cloud

Convinced our voices can't be heard

We just wanna scream it louder and louder and louder”

Puck and Dean grinned at Kurt, and, since performing was at least 60% of his DNA, Kurt hammed it up for his audience, punching the air like Freddie Mercury, and letting himself just enjoy as his voice danced around Puck’s.

“What the hell we fighting for?

Just surrender and it won't hurt at all

You just got time to say your prayers

While you're waiting for the hammer to fall!”

Kurt held the last pose, and tried to hide a grin as Dean laughed. “Rock on!” Dean said. He stood, “But fun as this is, Bobby’s been on my ass to help with the wards, and I wanna get it done before the rains.”

“It’s okay,” Kurt said. “It’s about time for our run.”

Puck groaned, dropping his head to the desk, but Kurt wasn’t too worried. He knew how much Puck enjoyed the activity after a long morning stuck at a desk. Sure enough, Puck perked up quickly, and packed his books away. Dean left out the back door, and Kurt went to wait for Puck on the front porch.

It was hot, that dead-of-summer sticky heat, heavy with the hint of thunderstorms. Kurt felt sweat break out on the small of his back and settle with nowhere to go. This run wasn’t going to be pleasant. He looked at the sky. The clouds had begun to gather earlier that morning, and had darkened steadily since then. Kurt hoped the rain would come soon; something needed to break.

Puck joined Kurt, and they set off without a word, down the steps and out along the path to hug the outer fence on their first run though.

Kurt never thought he’d come to enjoy running; it always had too many connotations of running away from whatever undereducated Neanderthal was chasing him that day. But this, the easy rhythm of his stride, the moments of lift as he jumped over a branch or a tire, this was almost fun. And having Puck run with him, keeping pace with him and not after him, though it had been nearly two years since Puck had been that bully, and Puck was chasing him in a whole new way now; it felt good to have a partner, right.

And the way Puck’s shirt clung to him in the moments before he took it off completely, well, that didn’t hurt, either.

The first drop hit Kurt on the neck, and for a moment, he thought it was just sweat dripping from his hair. Then the next drop hit his nose, then his cheek. Then the skies opened and a few drops became a whiteout of rain.

Kurt stopped running, unsure of what was in front of him, and Puck pulled up next to him. Already they were both soaked through, and about as far from the house as they could get. Kurt began to laugh.

“This isn’t rain,” he said, trying to raise his voice over the sound of the rain. “It’s a waterfall.”

“Feels amazing!” Puck crowed, and raised his hands and face to the sky. He looked down a moment, later, snorting and coughing after the water had rushed up his nose.

“Come on,” Kurt said. “Let’s get inside before we drown.” Kurt picked his way over to the minibus, laughing as they slid in the mud. Puck reached the van first and Kurt scrambled in after him, still giggling. It was louder than Kurt had expected in the van, the water pounding on the metal roof, but leak free. Puck was already digging for a towel, and Kurt had to giggle.

“What?” Puck said, looking over his shoulder with a grin.

“I am soaked,” Kurt said, pulling the damp fabric away from his skin. “Okay,” he said. “Nothing for it. This shirt’s got to go.” He gripped the bottom the shirt, arms crossed over his front, and tried to pull it off in one smooth motion, but the wet fabric wouldn’t cooperate, stretching and sticking where it shouldn’t and Kurt got caught with the shirt halfway over his head. “Shit,” he muttered, and heard Puck laugh.

“Here,” Puck said, and Kurt felt Puck try and untangle the shirt; Kurt stopped moving when he felt Puck’s fingers graze his exposed skin, his breath catching. Puck froze too, and Kurt knew Puck heard him, but then Puck was tugging and Kurt’s shirt finally came off, and Puck was right there and Kurt heard a whimper and didn’t know if it was him or Puck, but it didn’t matter because they were kissing, finally kissing after weeks, Puck’s mouth hot and dirty against his own, and it was everything Kurt ever wanted from a kiss and never got and—

Kurt moaned into the kiss, he knew it was him because he could feel it, he could feel everything and nothing but Puck’s mouth on his own, and—

Oh—

Puck’s hand on Kurt’s neck, holding him in place and Kurt gasped against Puck’s mouth, and Puck’s tongue licked against Kurt’s lips, his teeth, and Kurt had never been more turned on in his life and—

Kurt kneeled up, drawing Puck with him, his hands on the other boy’s wrists, running down his arms and up over his shoulders, one hand cupping Puck’s jaw, and the other stroking down over Puck’s chest, feeling those muscles, stuttering over his scarred nipple to feel Puck jerk against him, and down, skimming along Puck’s side to grip his waist.

Puck pulled away with a gasp. “God-” he muttered, looking down at Kurt’s chest. “You—”

“Yeah,” Kurt panted, his eyes tracing a drop of water down Puck’s neck. He swayed forward, caught it on his tongue, and licked his way up Puck’s neck.

“Fuck—,” Puck growled, and grabbed Kurt’s hips with both hands, and pulled Kurt forward and Kurt jerked when cock—god he was hard, he couldn’t remember ever being this hard, this fast—ground against Puck’s, and he bit down on Puck’s neck, and Puck’s head went back, and he rolled his hips, he rolled their hips, and Kurt felt it, sensation light lightning along his nerves

Puck broke the kiss with a soft groan and Kurt followed, seeking with his mouth. Why was Puck stopping, Kurt didn’t want to stop; this felt so good, why are you stopping?

Something sparked in Kurt. “Why not?” He whined, glaring up at Puck. “I said I was ready. Or do you not want me, either?”

Puck’s expression darkened. “Oh, I want you,” he said, and ground their hips together again. Kurt groaned, eyes slipping shut as pleasure sparked. “Don’t you doubt that I want you in a bad way,” Puck growled. “But I am not that guy anymore. I’m not gonna treat you like some casual hook-up.” Kurt met Puck’s eyes, and Puck continued, his expression intense. “That means we’re going to take it slow until we’re both ready.” He paused, softening slightly as he said. “Because you may be ready, but I don’t think I--” Puck swallowed. “I’ve never--not with another guy, and definitely not with someone who matters. I don’t want to rush in and fuck this up.”

Kurt realized he was grinning, helplessly. “That may be the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Puck snorted, and rolled his eyes, but he had a small smile on his face.

“Hey,” Kurt said, smile softening. He could get used to that smile, seeing it across the table, or the last thing at night, or across the room in Glee--Kurt’s smile fell. Bobby’s place was so complete, Hunting so separate from his everyday life, it was easy to forget that they had to go back to Lima. Already, it seemed like so much had happened, going back would be impossible; The Kurt and Puck here, in the van, were very different from the Kurt and Puck of New Directions. Going back to that would feel like--like backsliding.

“What are you thinking,” Puck asked, a hint of wariness entering his voice.

Here it is, Kurt thought. Moment of truth. “I have to hide so much, Puck. I’m not going to hide my relationships, too. And I want it. I want you. And I want it all. And if you can’t give me that, then…” Kurt trailed off. It was an empty threat; if Puck didn’t want to be out in Lima, then they would have just one more thing to hide. But Kurt was so sick and tired of hiding.

Puck eased under him. “That’s it? Kurt, Babe,” Puck ran a hand through Kurt’s hair, and Kurt’s eyes fluttered at the sensation. Puck paused, and Kurt opened his eyes. Puck leaned in close, enunciating. “Fuck hiding. I just bagged the hottest piece of ass in Lima. I want bragging rights.”

Kurt raised an eyebrow. “Hottest piece of ass, huh?” he asked, voice dry. Did Puck really think it could be that easy?

“Hell, yeah,” Puck said. “I’ve made a study. I have a chart and everything.”

Puck sighed, settled both hands on Kurt’s hips. “I know people will be dicks. I’m gonna get slushied, we’re gonna get slushied like never before. The team might even try to start shit again. But we only have one more year. And we have Glee, and new mad ninja skills,” Kurt laughed at this and Puck went on, “but I don’t care. I go where my heart leads, and I’m not hiding that.”

Kurt smiled, feeling something warm and nervous spread from his heart. “Even if I start calling you ridiculous pet names? Pookie?” he asked, and bit his tongue to keep from smiling.

“I can give as good as I get, cuddlebuns.”

“Cuddlebuns!” Kurt said, head snapping up. Puck grinned at him, and pulled him into another kiss. It was going to be hard to be mad at Puck as long as he kissed like that, Kurt thought. He pulled away long enough to murmur, “boyfriend?”

Sam was in Bobby’s office when the rain started, idly browsing through the usual sites on his laptop, looking for something--a hunt, Leviathan, anything,--that would break the monotony and at least give the impression of forward momentum. He looked out the window at the sound, and raised his eyes at the force of the weather.

He frowned. They had said rain, yes, but this seemed--excessive. Sam opened a new browser window and brought up the area’s weather forecast. It was probably nothing; Sam was so desperate for something that he was reading too much into things, but he’d rather look and find nothing, then not look and be caught by surprise.

It looked to be just another summer storm. Sam slumped. He had been so sure that there was something supernatural behind the weather--

“What makes you so sure there isn’t?” said an all-too familiar voice, gravel-deep, British, and smug. Sam turned his head.

“Crowley,” Sam said. Crowley grinned back at him.

“Sam Winchester,” he looked Sam over, very slowly and very obviously. “You look--whole.”

“You look like you have thirty seconds to explain what you’re doing here before I exorcise your ass,” Sam countered, standing. Sam had learned early what his height could do for him; generally, it didn’t matter how powerful someone was, if you had height on them, you could intimidate them. Crowley raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Maybe I’m not here for you,” Crowley said. “Maybe I have some unfinished business with the Master of the House.”

Sam frowned. “What do you want with Bobby?”

Crowley leered. “The better question, is what don’t I want with Bobby.”

“You--” Sam said, pointing a finger and stepping forward. He stopped when he heard the cocking of a shotgun behind him. They both turned; Bobby stood in the doorway, shotgun pointed at Crowley. Crowley grinned.

“Hello. Darling.”

“Shuddup,” Bobby sneered. “Back up.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, but he sighed, and took a step back into, Sam realized, the hold of the devil’s trap painted under the rug. “Satisfied?” Crowley asked.

Crowley sniffed, and drained his tumbler. When he lowered the glass, it was still half-full. “Make no mistake; I want that insignificant piece of purgatory puss whipped from the arsehole of existence. It has come to my attention that you have a--let’s call it a plan.” He inspected his fingernails. “I’ve come to offer my--support.”

“You don’t seem too enthusiastic about that,” Bobby said.

Crowley looked at Bobby, exasperated. “I have the legions of Hell at my beck and call, and I am offering them to you on a silver platter, and you take issue with my enthusiasm?” Crowley sighed. “Humans.”

“How did you find out about our plan?” Sam asked. If Crowley knew, then--

“I was told,” Crowley said. “By your little boyfriend.”

“Less on the ‘little,’ thanks,” Gabriel said, stepping out from behind Sam from nowhere.

Crowley looked between Sam and Gabriel, and Sam bristled. “Oh, that’s precious,” Crowley said. “Rather like a Chihuahua mounting a Great Dane.”

Gabriel snorted and snapped his fingers as Crowley took a sip of his drink. He spat it to the floor, mouth smoking. “Ouch.” Crowley hissed.

“Behave,” Gabriel said. Sam couldn’t help feeling a little bit proud of Gabriel at that moment; there was no mistaking the power he had, even if Gabriel was just standing there in his unassuming vessel, the stick of a lollipop hanging from his lips.

“You’re a dick,” Crowley hissed. “Sssweet Manchester, that hurtssss.”

“Gabe?” Sam asked. Gabriel looked evenly at Sam, working the stick from one side of his mouth to the other. After a long moment, Gabriel took the lollipop from his mouth.

“We’re going up against something so old and powerful, my Dad locked it away rather than unmaking it. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

And suddenly, Sam knew exactly where Gabriel had been disappearing to. He hadn’t been playing tricks--well, maybe he had, but not exclusively. He had been gathering allies.

“Thank you,” Sam said quietly. Gabriel met his eyes, white light burning from a pinprick in his pupils, and Sam knew Gabriel had heard all he hadn’t said.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Gabriel said. “You don’t know how many I talked to. Crowley’s been the only one to take me up on my offer.”

Crowley sniffed. “My pride was at stake,” he said. Sam glanced over at him. Crowley seemed to have recovered from his holy-water cocktail.

“Roman turned down his offer,” Gabriel said. Crowley glared at him.

The front door slammed, and Sam recognized Dean’s footsteps. Sure enough, he called out from the kitchen. “Fucking monsoon. Bobby, where’re the fucking towels?” Gabriel snapped and Sam heard Dean skitter to a stop. “Gabe? When did you get back?” His footsteps started again, and he appeared in the doorway. “Did you get the--why the fuck’re you here?” Dean stopped short, looking at Crowley.

Gabriel spoke around the lollipop in his mouth. “Pie is in the ‘fridge. Apple-cranberry crumble.”

Dean perked up a bit, “Awesome.” He didn’t move, however, other than to look away from Sam to glare at Crowley. Gabriel snapped and a gap appeared in the paint.

“I’ve had enough,” Crowley said, and stepped out of the trap. Sam took a step back and felt foolish; if Crowley was going to hurt them, he could have done so from within the circle. He felt a little better when Bobby and Dean stepped back, too. Gabriel hadn’t, however, and was now smirking slightly at the three of them. Crowley kept speaking; “You know how to get in touch.” He paused, and winked at Bobby. “Call me,” he said, and was gone.

There was a long pause in the wake of his departure. Then Bobby said, “Goddammit, we never asked about the manifestation.”

“You could always try and seduce it from him with your wiles, Bobby,” Dean said.

“Shuddup, idjit.”

Sam sank down into the couch, listening with only half and ear as Bobby and Dean snipped at each other. He started to clear his computer, done with research for the moment, when he felt the couch dip next to him.

“Hey,” Gabriel said quietly. “Sorry.” Sam looked over at Gabriel, still wearing the face of his male vessel, contrition hanging heavily on his features, and Sam felt a warmth in his chest swell. He reached out with and arm and wrapped it around Gabriel’s shoulders, pulling him in close. Gabriel stiffened with surprise; they had never--not while Gabriel was a man. But Sam was tired, and cranky, and bored out of his freakin’ mind, and all he wanted was to hold his love close; his love who had scoured the globe looking for help for a hopeless cause. Slowly, Gabriel relaxed into the hold, his head coming to rest on Sam’s shoulder, and he breathed in the scent of fresh candied apples.

Sam was aware that Dean and Bobby were staring at them, he just couldn’t bring himself to care. He moved his mouse to close the last browser window, and paused. He leaned in closer, dislodging Gabriel, who made an indignant noise.

“Guys,” Sam said. “I think I have it.” He looked up, and turned the screen around. “It’s a manifestation spell, and I’m pretty sure it’ll work. Now all we need to do is figure out how to kill it.” Sam grinned. “We’re halfway there.” Bobby and Dean looked at the screen, dumbfounded. Next to Sam, Gabriel smirked.

***

Jody Mills was, by and large, a patient woman. You had to be when you policed a place like Sioux Falls; the greatest weapon in her arsenal was her ability to use her silence. She didn’t have to stay quiet forever, just long enough to make the other person speak first. Or act first. Or incriminate themselves. A guilty conscience can’t abide silence; people who are kept waiting will generally reveal more than they intend to. So, when Jody heard a representative of Roman Industries site wanted to meet with her, Jody took her time heading back to the station.

Deputy Burns met Jody at the door. “He’s been in your office for almost an hour,” he said. The rain poured down heavily behind her, and water dripped from the rubber covering on her hat. Burns glanced back over his shoulder and Jody raise an eyebrow at the obvious tell. “Hasn’t said a word.” Then Burns tipped his hat, and passed her to his car.

Jody nodded to herself and entered the station, doffing her hat, and holding it lightly by the lip as she checked the logs at the front desk. The secretary, Vicky, leaned in close, snapping her gum. Jody smelled cinnamon.

“I don’t like that one,” Vicky said in undertone. “There’s something off about him. I can’t quite put my finger on it?”

Jody met Vicky’s eyes and nodded, knowing that, from a distance, it looked like she was nodding at the log. “I’ll take care of it,” Jody murmured. She looked around the desk, and said. “Hey Vick, can you hand me those files?”

Vicky frowned, but collected the files and handed them over. “They’re just waiting to be filed.”

“Perfect,” Jody said, juggling the stack of files. It was nearly a foot high, and the papers slides precariously. “I’ll bring them right back.”

Papers in hand, Jody walked across to her office. Being the Sheriff, Jody had the nicest office in the building, big and with several large glass windows to watch not only the outside, but the happenings in the bullpen. She saw him, sitting in the chair across from her desk, straight backed but not stiff, and--off. Jody frowned. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what was off, and that bothered her more than anything.

Jody shifted the files, scrabbling for the doorknob, and just managed to open the door before everything fell from her hands.

“Sorry about that,” Jody said. “I’m Sheriff Mills.”

The suit stood, turning to offer his hand with a smile. “Trent Peterson, Roman Industries.”

Jody ignored his hand, making a point to juggle the papers. Trent just stood with his hand out, like he didn’t know what to do if somebody refused to shake his hand. Jody waited until he had put his hand down before she “finally” put the files down on her desk, and sat in the chair with the desk between them. She waved for him to sit. Trent sat, smooth and still with that congenial smile, like that moment of hesitation had never happened. Jody didn’t like that smile.

“So,” Jody said. “What brings you here, Mr. Peterson?”

“Well,” Trent said. “As you know, Roman Industries has interest in developing this area, and has been working towards that end for the last few months.”

“The alternative energy power plant,” Jody said, shifting some of the files off the pile into a smaller stack. “Yes, the whole town’s been buzzing with it.”

“Then you’ll know Dick Roman himself will be in town next week for the breaking ground ceremony.”

Jody paused, “I had heard a rumor to that effect, yes. Are you expecting some kind of security risk?”

“Not at all,” Trent said. “Mr. Roman travels with his own personal security, and they have an impeccable record. Unfortunately, not everyone reacts to their presence...favorably. I have been sent ahead to smooth any ruffled feathers.”

Trent shook his head. “Nothing of the kind.” He hesitated, and Jody knew, knew, that it was staged for effect. “The unfavorable reaction usually comes from within local law enforcement.”

Jody smiled at that. “My force isn’t the type to get territorial when someone’s life is at stake.”

“Nevertheless,” Trent said. “I’m making a formal request to the Sioux Falls Sheriff department to let Roman Securities handle both Mr. Roman’s visit, and the policing of the construction zone.

Keep out, Jody thought. And not very subtle. Either he doesn’t think too highly of a backwater sheriff, or he doesn’t care. She folded her hands in front of her, and watched Trent though half-open eyes. She leaned over to open her bottom drawer, watching Trent through the corner of her eye so she caught the flash of hunger in his eyes, the momentary widening of his mouth. Big Mouth! She grabbed the permit she was looking for, and placed it on the desk in front of Trent, making sure to pull back before he reached for it.

“You’ll need to fill out that form,” Jody said, “before I can formally accept your request. But I don’t foresee there being any problems.” She smiled at him, and Trent returned it, standing. Jody stayed seated, and Trent didn’t offer his hand again.

“Pleasure doing business, Sheriff.”

“Have a good day, now,” Jody said, watching him leave. As soon as he was out of sight, Jody was on her feet, gathering the files. She jammed her hat on her head, and dropped the stack of files on Vicky’s desk as she passed by, headed towards the gun locker. She signed out two shotguns, two boxes of shells, and grabbed her Kevlar. Within minutes she was back in her car, driving as fast as she could in the rain towards Singer Salvage. She had to talk to Bobby. Now.